


Apartment 6A

by britishbullet



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, But is rather smitten with Matt, Fluff and Angst, Fran is a nosy neighbor who doesn't like the fishmarket, Gen, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Matt is horrible at keeping secrets, Or Foggy Nelson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-02 02:39:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4042570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/britishbullet/pseuds/britishbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs. Francine Humphrey has lived in Apartment 6B in a shabby building on shabby corner of a shabby street in Hell’s Kitchen for as long as she can remember (which isn’t theoretically all that long, sometimes, Francine has problems remembering what she had for yesterday’s breakfast). Life is generally quiet, full of knitting and game shows and her grandchildren calling (life is generally boring, full of dust on the television and sirens outside her window). When a young man with a loose tie and red sunglasses moves in across the hall to apartment 6A, Fran's world suddenly is full of an explosion of noise and gossip - and even secrets.</p>
<p>Secrets that'd pull her into the life of her mysterious neighbor and a world she never thought existed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When Foggy and Karen are drunk and banging on Matt's door in episode 1x02, a little old lady named Fran appears, and Foggy refers to her by name. I started wondering about Fran, about how much she knows about Matt and his double life as the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, and how Foggy came to know her name. Thus, a plot bunny. Please enjoy Fran and her eavesdropping and awkward encounters with our favourite vigilante at important parts of his life during the course of the show.

Mrs. Francine Humphrey has lived in Apartment 6B in a shabby building on shabby corner of a shabby street in Hell’s Kitchen for as long as she can remember (which isn’t theoretically all that long, sometimes, Francine has problems remembering what she had for yesterday’s breakfast). She’s a tenacious woman though, and long after her three sons, four grandsons, and two granddaughters had  left New York State all together after the Incident and her husband cold in the ground, Fran from 6B found herself with little entertainment apart from the Game Show Network on a scratchy-at-best television set.

 

Until the door to 6A opened with a gust of wind one summer afternoon and Fran saw through the peep-hole a tall, ginger, young man with a box and cane in his hands and sunglasses on his face (despite the darkly shadowed corridor of their floor). Seems like a nice enough fellow, Fran thought. A quiet one, even. She reached on tip-toe to pull back several locks – deadbolts, chains, keys and latches you name it, it was there (and installed by her eldest out of fear for her safety after Mr. Humphrey passed) – and inch the solid metal-faced door slowly open. The sound must’ve startled the young man, because a box of electronic wiring and cables tumbled out of his hands and the contents fell onto the worn floors of the hallway.

 

“Oh!”

 

His voice was soft, even in surprise, and Fran decided that she liked that and moved the door open quickly as not to delay the squeaky-door-opening-process any further, just enough that her small, stout body filled the frame and the dark crevices of her apartment could not be seen without significant effort. Wires were spilling onto the floor haphazardly and Fran lifted a white brow gently while the man seemed to appear rather lost, toes nudging wires and hands struggling to get a grip and reorient the now empty box labeled “Murdock” in scratchy print that went sideways.

 

“I’m… I’m sorry, I’m just... I’m moving in, um. 6A?”

 

Fran nodded, but the man didn’t seem to react and her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t dense, but she was old, and her own eyesight was fading behind thick bottle-glass style glasses that sat low on her nose. As she pushed them up and examined the boy closer, Fran decided that ah – yes, of course. Her new neighbor (or so it seemed – who knows, sometimes people tried to break in and squat for a week or two before she called the police; Fran was nice enough to know sometimes people needed some time to get back on their feet and a roof over their heads would help) was _blind_.

 

Fran cleared her throat, but before she could get a word in edgewise, a man in an ill-fitting suit bounded up the steps like an over-excited puppy before skidding to a halt and clutching his own box. “His name’s Matt!” the man stated happily, brushing long hair out of his eyes.

 

Hooligan, Fran instinctively thought.

 

She couldn’t help but hope that it was only this quiet one moving in, and not _this_ one. Trouble comes in pairs, you see. Her gaze flicked between the two men and she hugged the door frame closer, her apprehension hanging thick in the air. It wasn’t that she _disliked_ new neighbors, and though she came off as a curmudgeonly old woman who would shake a stick at every social human if she had one, Fran liked gossip and the buzz of others around her. It gave her something to focus on, to track the day’s events, and even on the odd occasion (if she liked the person enough to tolerate them and they respected her infrequently visiting family whenever they _did_ show up) reason to be marginally social.

 

“I’m Foggy, Foggy Nelson, and this is Matt Murdock and he’s moving in! Isn’t that right, buddy?!” Foggy patted his friend on the shoulder before noticing the wires laying on the ground. “Took a spill.”

 

“Yeah. Foggy, look it’s alright, I can get this on my own, it’s just one flight of stairs and I hardly have anything to move – “

 

“Nope, don’t listen to him, Mrs. 6B – he likes to pretend he's competent at life, and most of the time he is and it’s really impressive,” Foghorn? Was that his name? began to ramble before pretending to whisper behind a shielded hand, “And I don’t just mean about being blind, but like. He’s impressive for a normal human. And a lawyer!”

 

“Not yet, Foggy.”

 

“C’mon! We passed the bar! Isn’t that close enough, buddy?”

 

“Can’t you just put the box down inside and stop scaring my neighbors or I’ll have to hunt all over Hell’s Kitchen for a sizable refrigerator box to live in,” Matt softly and jokingly suggested and to his delight, Foggy placed his box of files and assorted living accessories inside the door, scooping up wires, batteries, and cords in the same deft swoop.

 

 “Francine Humphrey,” she grunted when Foggy had straightened up and she shut the door with a loud squeak of rusted hinges that left Matt wincing. As Fran leaned up against the door, peering yet again through the peep-hole, she heard Matt grumble to his friend under his breath. Instantly, she was glad only her eyesight had started to go bad in her old age. You can’t eavesdrop with bad hearing…

 

“Foggy…”

 

“Matty, relax. She’s an old lady, not a butch biker with a handle-bar moustache who eats guys like us for brunch. With mimosas.”

 

“While I trust your character judgment, I’d appreciate if this entire floor wasn’t vacated upon my moving in.”

 

Fran watched as Matt leaned over to kick the newly-refilled box of electrical supplies inside the door, perfectly aligned with the one next to it. Both boys leaned in the open doorway and gazed at the door to 6B. Fran pulled back, suddenly feeling like she had been caught, her tiny pupil through the peep-hole revealed to the entire hallway as if by magic. “She seems – “

 

“Nice, Foggy. She seems nice.”

 

“I wasn’t going to say not-nice, just a bit…”

 

“You bombarded her.”

 

“Yeah… yeah okay I guess I did, but you just need to make friends!” Foggy playfully shoved his friend’s shoulder, making Matt sway from his side of the doorway, the jam pressed up against the middle of his back and arms crossed. Fran peered up against the small hole once more, curious to know what they would say about her. Frankly, she was touched that Mark – or was it Matthew? Matt, right? – would defend her seconds after meeting her and after such a gruff first introduction. A small smile graced her lips, something that rarely happened except in the presence of her grandchildren and as the boys continued their banter they shut the door to 6A and the conversation became too muffled for her senses to make out.

 

Fran backed away from the door, replaced the locks and chains, and sat herself in a musty armchair covered with a crocheted afghan – the kind that all grandmothers seem to acquire as if by magic once having grandchildren and being considered old. Now was the test, Fran decided.

 

If it was quiet for five minutes, she might socialize with this Matt boy (provided the foggy one wasn’t around constantly – she didn’t have the energy to deal with a man as buoyant as he had already revealed himself to be). So for half an hour, the silence except for the soft click of her knitting needles exceeded her expectations.

 

At 31 minutes and 29 seconds, long after she had stopped counting and decided perhaps 6A’s new resident was worth extracting herself now and then from her hovel of a home, a loud crash and a whoop of glee resounded from behind the closed door of 6A and the floor reverberated with the force of something heavy and made of glass shattering.

 

Fran dropped her head into her hands.

 

“Oh, god help me…”

 

 

* * *

 

 

A week later and the Murdock boy was still living in 6A.

 

Or so, Fran assumed. Her first assumption that the boy was quiet had thus far seemed to be correct, sans when his Foghorn friend of his showed up. Fran hadn’t developed a clear opinion on Foggy Nelson just yet, only that her peace and quiet and uninterrupted Game Show reruns of the Newlywed Game quickly became interrupted with shouts of “Objection, counselor!” and “MATTY, PLEASE!” amongst other things like the old windowpanes the janitor used to keep in the vacant apartment smashing on the floor. Nobody had wanted that apartment since the billboards went up, and come to think of it, Fran realized it was probably a steal to a blind man.

 

Today, however, was different. Fran knew the boy was some sort of prior law student, that much she had overheard from bits of conversation that lingered beyond her locked door in the hallway. It had been mostly quiet today, which _actually_   wasn’t all that different. She knew the boy had just recently started an internship with a prestigious law firm so he was gone most of the day (whereas Fran herself was stuck in her lonely and dank apartment) but in the evenings he was usually home by seven or eight, with or without Foggy trailing behind. However, Fran had briefly heard Matthew Murdock’s door to 6A momentarily open around 4:30, which was unusually early.

 

She made her way to the peep-hole, slippers dragging across the worn hardwood floor to find that on the other side, the young lawyer was leaning in his open door, loosening his tie and kicking off shoes rather hastily.

 

He looked to be in a bit of a rush, so of course, it was at this moment that Fran decided she wanted to be social.

 

She quickly threw off all the locks and the door wide open (and though she wasn’t finicky about her image, she was glad her neighbor could not see her standing in her house coat and slippers in the cold hallway, hair and glasses slightly askew). Matt’s shoulders, once slumped, immediately squared in response to the noise and turned around, a prepared smile on his lips. “Mrs. Humphrey, hi, um I’m sorry if – “

 

“Fran.”

 

Matt paused. Fran thought she saw a bead of sweat running down into the side of the man’s shirt collar, but she could just be seeing things with her bad eyesight, after all.  “Fran,” he hesitantly parroted before continuing. “Fran, I’m sorry if lately things have been rather… hectic… on my side of the hallway – “

 

Fran fully emerged from the safety of her doorway and shook her head, before remembering _ah, can’t be seen_ and tsked. “No, no, don’t fret.” _Though I am not a fan of your pet best friend…_ “I wanted to formally say hello, finally, and uh – dear?”

 

“Yes, Mrs. Hu-… Fran…?”

 

“You aren’t looking well, Mr. Murdock.” Fran peered over the tops of her glasses. Yes, yes that was sweat.

 

“Matt.”

 

“Matt. Matthew? My eldest grandson’s name is Matthew,” Fran hoped the sweetness in her voice lightened the mood. She was horrible at small talk. “Forgive silly me, but you’re home earlier than I usually notice and awful pale. Are you eating enough?” Ah, letting grandmotherly instinct kick in almost immediately. Fran pursed her lips and crossed her arms. She chalked it up to force of habit. While she didn’t like it, she often played into the stereotype that little old ladies were nosy and weak and helpless (Fran was none of those things, except maybe nosy. Okay, definitely nosy).

 

“I’m fine, Fran. Thank you.”

 

Another _tsk_ , this time, fairly audible.

 

Matt’s forced smile seemed to relax at her response, and his head tilted to the side ever so slightly, ginger tinted hair flopping over to one side. “Honestly, I’m alright!” He patted his stomach. “Full as ever, just had a long day so I came home early…” His voice trailed off.

 

Fran clucked her tongue and retreated back towards the safety of her doorway, but not before she smiled, genuinely smiled ( _I have a fifth grandson now, Lord help me_ _it’s only been five minutes_ ) and said “You let me know, I’m only across the hall.”

 

Matt paused and listened as she retreated to her apartment and smiled a tighter smile. “Thank you, Fran. I’ll be fine.”

 

He hoped Fran’s hearing was debatable at best…

 

Fran hoped her hearing was impeccable at worst. Something was off with that boy from 6A.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a well known fact that Matt Murdock is a horrible liar, and Fran experiences this first hand after seeing something she wished she really hadn't. All the same, at least this is more entertaining than reruns of Dr Phil...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I am absolutely thrilled and blown away by the response this has already gotten. I know it's pretty early to post chapter two so soon after the first, but I'm pretty excited about sharing it with you. I aim to keep writing and hopefully finish by next week - but do not expect updates every single day. Consider this a bonus treat, and that this should be well on its way towards having everything written within the next week! Have fun with Fran!

She didn’t hear his door open again that night, so she safely assumed the boy was inside, getting some well needed rest from the looks of it. The click-clack of her metal knitting needles, the tick of her clock, and the occasional shouts of glee from her television set playing reruns of Family Feud were the only noises Francine Humphrey heard from 6:00 to 9:30 pm. At 9:32, her old corded telephone attached to her wall by a single screw rang shrilly.

 

“Hello?” Fran answered. She didn’t have a cell phone, or caller ID, and few people found the need to call her. Part of her wondered if the boy next door had figured out her number and needed help. Her thoughts returned to the poor boy, who really hadn’t looked all that well, and she missed half of what the person calling her had said.

 

“ – and Daddy said to call you because last week was your birffday and we and we and Samson said he… he said he misses you and and I miss you too, Grammy.”

 

She twirled the cord around her finger and smiled softly into her phone.

 

Her youngest granddaughter at age 4, Violet, her brother Samson, and their parents – her son and his wife – had left New York after the Incident, fearing for their children’s safety. As a result, Fran never got to see her grandchildren (she could often care less about her son – Daniel was the youngest and had a bad stretch of decision making in his early twenties, only recently having got his life together upon the move) but occasionally the little ones called her to babble in her ears and brighten her day. “I miss you too, Vi.”

 

“What are what are you doing, Grammy? Sammy _no_ it’s my turn still!” Violet’s voice muffled towards the end as Fran pictured clumsy fingers of five year old Samson grabbing the cell phone from his sister’s hands to shout “HI GRAMMY!” into the telephone.

 

Fran laughed.

 

Her laugh had conveniently covered up the first of many sounds of metal grating up against metal from the other side of the building. Fran did not notice.

 

“Hi, Sammy.”

 

“GRAMMY I P’AYED BLOCKS AT SCHOOL.”

 

This time, the screeching was audible even above the babblings of her young ones on the end of the line. The sound caught her off guard and she pulled the telephone away from her ear to listen as quietly as she could for a few brief moments. Hearing nothing immediately following the noise, she assumed it was just back door where the dumpsters were in the alley – the door was metal and the hinges were rusted and it made an _awful_ noise that used to send her husband’s hearing aids on the fritz. She placed the phone up against her ear and started to say “That’s nice, Sammy” when another awful, louder, longer screech echoed into her apartment.

 

Fran narrowed her eyes.

 

“Hang on a moment, dear, Grammy will be… right… back…” She lowered the phone again, letting it dangle on the end of the short cord and went on her toes to see out the peep hole. Nothing. Another screech, followed by a thud, coming from Apartment 6A… She shuffled back to the phone, murmured her goodbyes to her now disappointed grandchildren (making up an excuse like she had food in the oven… at 9:43 at night) and hung up before immediately crossing her living room yet again and methodically unlocked every lock, released the chains and the latches from her door, and swung it open.

 

There was no one in the hall, she noticed as she swiveled her head back and forth.

 

_Thud. Thud. CRASH!_

 

The sound of tinkling glass and a muffled moan echoed from 6A.

 

Fran crossed the hall as quickly and quietly as she could, only to discover that when Matt had entered his apartment the last time they spoke the door had not quite been pulled shut the whole way. She was surprised to discover when she edged herself to the gap between door and frame that all of the lights were off. The urge to call for him, to check on him, and in general to brown-nose where her nose did not belong (grandmotherly concern, Fran told herself, nothing more nothing less – can’t have a burglar about the neighborhood can we?) was stifled as a figure crossed before the open window on the other side of the rather empty apartment. The figure’s hair was askew, flying and fluffed in different directions from his scalp, except for one place where it was pushed flat against his skull, tied off by something – a piece of cotton? A hair tie? How odd…

 

Fran nudged herself closer, anxious to know if someone actually _had_ broken in, but when the figure stiffened and a drip of something sticky and wet hit the hardwood floors her heart felt as though it would burst and she quickly scuffled back to her own home.

 

The sound of whatever had dripped echoed in her mind as she set a plate of cat food out onto the balcony and checked her window locks and door locks three-fold before bed. Fran was no stranger to violence or blood; she knew what blood hitting the floor sounded like, she knew what the vibrations of adrenaline felt like and she could taste salt and apprehension. Realistically, Fran knew she had been spotted and with sweaty palms she quadruple checked her locks and peered through her peep hole one last time.

 

Surely, if the man in the mask were a burglar, he would have come after her. He would have noticed and he would’ve robbed her, too.

 

But nothing happened.

 

She didn’t call the police. The police had too many problems in Hell’s Kitchen on their hands. Fran didn’t like confrontation anyway. Were they likely to believe an old lady with bad eyesight who was completely unharmed? No, not particularly. She didn’t need the police anyway. She was 78 years old and going pretty strongly on her own, thanks. No bullshit burglar in Hell’s Kitchen could bring her down (maybe).

 

She grabbed the afghan from her arm chair, paused, decided to check her locks and peep hole for the fifth time (just in case), and shuffled to bed. If she saw him the next morning, at 7:00 am sharp where a cab or his friend Foggy would be waiting outside (or in Foggy’s case, banging on the door) then things would be okay and she could take this situation from there.

 

If she did not see him, she had questions.

 

As the thoughts toiled in her head and fought each other for most probable answer, Fran drifted off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

“MATT! MATT, LET’S GO WE’RE RUNNING LATE! WE HAVE A MEETING AT EIGHT WITH THE BANK!”

 

_Thud thud thud!_

 

“MATTY, WAKE UP! IF YOU WANT THIS LOAN WE GOTTA GO!”

 

_Thud thud thud thud!_

 

Her eyes snapped open. Her limbs, tense and heavy and feeling weak and shaky in her old age, protested at even the gasp of air she took as she processed that she was indeed awake. And it was indeed rather unfair. Fran froze beneath her sheets, gathering them all up around her and straining her ears to hear through the thin walls.

 

“Maaaatttt let’s _goooooo._ ” One more half-hearted thump and Foggy stopped knocking, proceeding to mutter to himself outside Matt’s door and pace up and down the hallway. Terror seized Fran’s heart. What if the man she had saw last night did something to the poor boy across the hall? And she, having been the sole witness, did not do anything to stop it? Was a by-stander in yet another crime committed in Hell’s Kitchen? Could have done something to sa –

 

“Foggy.”

 

Her heart skipped a beat, just barely making out the dulcet tones of a tired Matt Murdock as he opened his door. Fran lay in bed, almost pressed to the wall that abutted the hallway, eager to hear the rest of the conversation (after her husband passed she moved the bed so that his side was up against the wall so the bed seemed smaller – it was too big without him around).

 

“Shit, Matt. You okay?”

 

“I’m alright, Foggy.”

 

“Sure as hell don’t look it, buddy.”

 

“I’m _fine, pal_.” Matt gritted through his teeth, and Fran could almost sense the awkwardness permeate the walls.

 

There was a pregnant pause before she heard the door shut and Foggy sigh loudly. “If you insist! Let’s go then, if we wanna do this - we gotta start somewhere.” Another pause. “You're sure, Matty?”

 

“Positive, Fog. Just tried to clean up that old broken window last night and fell when taking out the garbage after. I’m fine.”

 

“Bullshit,” Fran mumbled from beneath her covers, and turned over for just one more hour of blessed uninterrupted sleep as footsteps trailed down the hall and staircase.

 

When Fran awoke again at 8:30 the hallway was quiet; there were no arguments about the state of health of her neighbor, no pounding on doors, no crash of glass. As she made her breakfast of toast and eggs and turned on one of the cooking channels for background, she contemplated the conversation she had overheard a mere hour and a half prior.

 

“ _Just tried to clean up that old broken window last night and fell when taking out the garbage after. I’m fine._ ”

 

What she heard wasn’t glass crashing, but the thud of the fire escape and the squelch metal on metal. He didn’t clean up any glass last night. Fran flipped her eggs. No, she pondered. Maybe he fought with the man standing in his apartment that she had seen and didn’t want to alarm his friend that there had been a break in. Maybe, just maybe…

 

Fran scoffed at the idea. What twisted soul would rob a blind man? Unless of course they didn’t know her neighbor was blind? But what if Matt had been followed home and his attacker returned later that night knowing he wouldn’t be able to see what was happening?

 

That didn’t quite explain why he was so unsettled when he came home early, or the fact that he came home early in the first place. Fran scrunched her nose. No, the pieces just weren’t adding up. He looked sick when he came home, almost like he had caught a bad fever with the sweat trickling into his shirt and his skin slightly glistening and pale. She had a sense for when people were sick or feeling unwell, it came from being a mother and a grandmother, and though he looked as though the symptoms fit – they just didn’t… go together.

 

Of course, there was another option for his coming home early and that was the one option that didn’t quite cross Fran’s mind as her eggs burned in the pan and just before the almost broken smoke detector went off she rescued them and quickly shut off her stove-top.

 

The rest of her day went smoothly with no major events or occurrences, but Matt Murdock’s face was constantly brought to the front of her mind: as she surfed the internet on an old laptop given to her by her second son who used to work in IT in the early stages of Stark Industries, played spider solitaire, and watched reruns of shitty daytime television shows that offered philosophical advice targeted for middle-aged women with marriage problems. Fran was getting rather antsy, and Matt’s pale face would not get out of her head and the puzzle pieces were not lining up, so she decided that there was no better time to get out of her head and out of her house than now, while the apartment building was still mostly empty and people were at work or just starting on their way home.

 

She pulled on an old coat, frayed at the edges of the sleeves and well loved, her sneakers, and adjusted her hair and glasses. A quick walk around the block before dark, maybe go say hello to her husband at the cemetery, and then back home. Fran had hopes this would clear her head of what she had seen the previous night and alleviate the guilt of witnessing whatever outcome the events had had. She grabbed her keys and shoved her important items into her small bag, just barely fitting amongst the rolls of nickels and pennies she kept stowed in the bottom. Many people, her grandchildren included, thought the rolls of coins were for emergencies or to buy her grandkids candy on a whim (heaven knows they tried and often succeeded) but Fran secretly knew their purpose. See, coins carry a lot of weight when rolled together, and several rolls may not appear to be much inside a bag, but pack a punch when swung with the right amount of momentum.

 

Francine Humphrey didn’t need a cell phone to call for help, a panic button, or pepper spray. She could hold her own in Hell's Kitchen just fine, thank you.

 

She pulled her front door shut and stuck her key in the only lock which was on the outside, heavy footsteps came up the stairwell. Fran turned.

 

Matthew Murdock stood at the top of the metal stairs, cane in the process of being folded up and only half extended, and his hand halfway through his hair. “Hello, Fran.”

 

“Matthew,” Fran answered curtly and freely examined his appearance for the first time since the night before. He had a little more color in him than he did previously (which Fran was secretly delighted to see), but the things that caught her attention the most were the bright red scratches on his knuckles, a small split to his lower lip, a scrape below his right eye on his cheek. It looked as though he had repeatedly slid his hands across concrete, peeling bits of skin off until they were raw and red. By this time in her examination, Matt had felt that she was staring and shifted from one foot to the other, a smile on his face that would still manage to send the young woman inside of her swooning. Fran smiled tersely. “Are you feeling better?”

 

“…Better? Oh.” He coughed. “Yes, yes I am. I had a late night last night, broken glass on the floor, you see? Plus, those stairs are murder for a guy like me.” He held up his hand and waved at his face for her to see and she was not afraid to freely roll her eyes at his response.

 

“Glad to hear it, Matthew. You should get that wrapped and clean.” _It doesn’t look a thing like cuts from glass._

 

“I’ll make sure of it, Fran, thank you.”

 

The conversation swiftly ended as Matt neared his door and stretched a hand out for his door handle, feeling around and finally striking home. He smiled once more at where he had assumed she had moved (a few feet off, she noticed, but he was close) and let himself inside. "Good evening, Fran."

 

"You too, dear."

 

Fran shook her head as she went down the staircase. The purpose of this walk had changed, she decided. She would figure out what he was up to eventually, because it definitely wasn’t punching glass windows.

 

_You’re a horrible liar, Matt Murdock, don’t you test me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I know this timeline may be a bit tricky to figure out right now. This as you may have guessed, is after the first time he beats someone up in the mask - the little girl's father who was molesting her. He came home early because he quit Landman and Zack, and I imagine the series of events happened rather quickly after that (to start a business you need a loan, to get a loan you need to meet with a bank, and I decided to throw the events of the girl's father right on top - creative licensing, I'll call it; the incident itself is mentioned in 1x10 as happening "right after we quit" - so let's assume he reported what was happening within that week and then built up that plan for the day they left).


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fran liked it when they laughed, when they bickered playfully with each other. They seemed at ease, and even though she wasn’t privy to their friendship, their atmosphere, or shared camaraderie, what they exuded in happiness managed to filter into Fran’s apartment and give her a sordid case of the smiles. Sometimes, this wasn’t always the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been longer than I said since the last update, I apologize. This chapter had me kind of stuck, and it's a bit shorter, so I apologize for the brevity. But as always, I hope you enjoy Fran's shenanigans.

Another week or two passed without any other major events.

 

Let’s place some stress on the ‘major’, part of things, shall we?

 

Fran was still very concerned about the state of her neighbor Matthew Murdock and tried her best to avoid excess confrontation with the boy, lest he develop the idea that she was keeping tabs on him (she _was_ keeping tabs on him). Most of what Fran did discover, however, was derived from overheard conversations through his door and the hallway with Foggy.

 

Just five days ago, for instance:

 

“Matty, you know we can’t accept clients based on whims; we need hard facts or it won’t stand in court.”

 

“Sometimes the law doesn’t have sharp lines, but blurred curves.”

 

“Where the hell did you hear that buddy, Thurgood Marshall again?”

 

Matt’s laugh resonated as they neared the stairs and Foggy shut 6A’s door. “No, Foggy. I made it up.”

 

“How would you even be able to see a hard line from a blurred curve anyway?”

 

Fran liked it when they laughed, when they bickered playfully with each other. They seemed at ease, and even though she wasn’t privy to their friendship, their atmosphere, or shared camaraderie, what they exuded in happiness managed to filter into Fran’s apartment and give her a sordid case of the smiles. Sometimes, this wasn’t always the case, like the day after the previous incident.

 

“I won’t have eight-hundred thousand people calling us from prison because they want us to defend them, Matt. The standard procedures we’re taught dictates not to accept collect calls unless previously arranged by a client already on the roster.”

 

“What if Brett calls from jail telling us we have a client? A client, for the fun of it, who says he can actually pay us? Isn’t bribing a cop for insider details on potential clientele already against standard procedure?”

 

“I don’t bribe Brett! He’s a fine upstanding officer who happens to like us. A lot.”

 

“You give his mother cigars on a regular basis.”

 

“Bess has known me since the Pull-Up diaper years.”

 

“It’s not in the procedure, is it, to bribe the police? Plus, a client in jail may not have the chance to reach us otherwise unless we give them a benefit of a doubt – “

 

“You can’t just assume all the people who want us to defend them are innocent, Matt! People do shitty things! ALL THE TIME.”

 

“Innocent until proven guilty.” Fran could hear Matt’s voice rise considerably during this conversation. His friend had hit a particular nerve, and during this bout of bickering, Fran was walking down the hallway with two sacks of groceries in her hands. Matt’s door was open by about a foot (so much so that Fran could lean her head in if she wanted to and see that the boys were sitting cross legged on the floor facing one another, mounds of paper, books, wet napkins, and beer cans around them).

 

“And if they’re obviously guilty – say caught at the scene of the next victim of the… the _Hell’s Kitchen Axe Murderer_ a la American Psycho with the axe that matches all the victims’ wounds and the DNA to prove it – and the guy calls us up, assuming we _have_ phones by then… ring ring, hello is this Matt and Foggy? Yes. I hear you can defend me. I killed seventeen people and am in jail and would like you to say I’m a regular good guy in front of a judge and jury for $50,000!” There was silence from Matt and Fran opened her door at this choice moment. The boys turned to look at her (or in her general direction in Matt’s case).

 

Foggy coughed. “Hi, Fran!”

 

“Hello, Mr. Nelson. Matthew,” Fran nodded to each of them in turn and Foggy relayed this action to his friend by vocal description. Fran nudged a door open with her elbow and stared intently at the blind man. She knew it was rude, but he couldn’t tell (so she thought) and she was still working on figuring out the puzzle that was the masked intruder and his injuries. He didn’t seem to have any new ones, as of yet…

 

“Sorry to disturb you, Fran. The door must’ve been left open.”

 

Fran chuckled to herself, “It sure was, Matthew. Not a worry, I’ll leave you be to hash it out and won’t say a peep.” When she closed her door, neither one of them made a move to shut Matt’s and soon the argument swiftly picked back up again.

 

Days passed, and to Fran it seemed as though whatever arguments the two boys had had were settled. She became concerned, and borderline paranoid (the man in black potential robbery/break in did not leave Fran’s mind, she did not see anything on the news, did not hear a police report – something must have happened). Other than this, her life returned to pre-Murdock boringness. Her grandchildren called twice, telling her about how they were doing in school, and how Joey, her youngest grandson who was two, ate a grasshopper in the front yard the other week. Big news for Joey. Bad news for the grasshopper population. Her concerns about Matt and his activities were laid to rest when Foggy and Matt had drunkenly walked themselves home with a shout of “Avocados at last!”

 

“It just means we have the money, Foggy.”

 

“WHO CARES, we have the money, now we need a place! AVOCADOS, MATT!” With that, the door was slammed shut.

 

Fran didn’t think this meant they got a good deal on avocados at the market… But their happy voices made her smile, particularly Matt’s happy voice (the boy always looked so stoic unless he cracked that pleasant grin… if only her granddaughters were twenty years older than they were).

 

It wasn’t the weirdest thing that Francine Humphrey experienced yet as neighbor to Matthew Murdock.

 

On a Monday morning, Fran woke up and turned on her radio, made her breakfast, ran the faucet, and began doing her dishes all before noon, which was a task considering that her lungs felt as though someone had stuffed cotton in them and her nose was as clogged as her sink. Her head felt foggy, like someone had muted everything and there were no headlights to clear it. She sat with a heavy heart into her chair, knitted some of her newest afghan, and lost count of her stitches three times before giving up and tossing her knitting needles into the basket at her side.

 

Her husband, bless his soul and the grave in which he rested, never stood for being sick. At the earliest sign of bare sniffles, he’d take her to the doctor’s and remedy the situation as early as possible. “Fit as a fiddle is the way you’re meant to be, Francine,” she echoed his words and pushed herself up from the chair with the decision to take herself to the pharmacy at the very least.

 

With a scarf, hat, gloves, and coat bundled around her tightly, Fran grabbed her purse with rolls of coins and left 6B only to discover that her peaceful walk to the pharmacy would become a necessary cab ride. A storm had taken Hell’s Kitchen by surprise, the rain bordering on pure sleet. A shiver traced itself up her spine and she spent fifteen minutes outside attempting to hail a cab before one finally pulled over and she just barely had time to skirt out of the range of the puddle spray caused by the taxi’s tires.

 

The trip was one of the longest Fran had ever experienced, and it wasn’t just the rain and sleet. There was a line at the pharmacy that wiggled its way through each and every aisle, winding nearly out the front door. Fran joined the line, but found herself feeling very disgruntled. It had been at least two hours by the time she had received her medicine just for a cough and flu and got back into a cab to go home.

 

She climbed the flight after flight of stairs forty-five minutes after she got into the cab and the rain was slightly less heavy and there was no sleet, but it was still dreary, and Fran was certain this wouldn’t help her cold, but as she turned up the last flight of stairs, two rain drenched figures not all that dissimilar from her own were standing outside the door to 6A.

 

A rain drenched Matt Murdock, tie loose and red hair simultaneously tousled and soaked, cane hanging limply from his wrist.

 

 _And_ a rain drenched girl with stringy blond hair.

 

Well this was new.

 

Fran pulled the scarf down from over her mouth and smiled gently, glancing from Matt to the girl and back again, assessing her. What was this situation? Was it private? Did Matt have a girlfriend she was unaware about? Why didn’t he give her a coat? Or an umbrella? Surely he knew it was raining he wasn’t stupid.

 

“Evening, Matthew.”

 

“Fran.”

 

Nothing from the blond girl. She looked afraid, her eyes wide, arms curled around herself and shaking.

 

“Have a good night, Fran.”

 

Her brows narrowed. He seemed to be in a rush, and usually even if Matt was busy when they ran into one another, he offered a few moments of brief conversation before moving on, but this time, as she turned to unlock her door, Matt had gently pushed his own door open and let the girl inside.  Just before he shut the door, Fran could hear his gentle voice usher, “I don’t have much in the way of food, but there’s a Thai place on the corner…”

 

Fran inched open her own door and sighed as she went inside, coughing lightly into a gloved fist. It was none of her business if Matt was bringing home a girl to have relationships with, if it made him happy, she was content, but something didn’t feel right. Surely they would’ve been introduced (maybe he just wasn’t ready) surely he wouldn’t have been so frank with her (they were soaking wet).

 

But she let it go.

 

She let it go until a few hours later she heard the door creak open as she was hanging up her bathrobe and the light tread of the visitor inch down the stairs. With all the possible scenarios running through her head, Francine Humphrey of 6B climbed into bed, hoping her lungs would clear by morning, and that all would reveal itself in time (given a few episodes of eavesdropping, of course – it _was_ the highlight of her day).

 

“Either you disappoint ladies, Matthew, or something is wrong.”


End file.
